Page 241 of Bad for Me

“You can say, ‘I’m sorry, Master,’ and make this easier on yourself,” I tell Misha, feeling emboldened. “Or you can keep being a defiant smartass, and I’ll have to have you carried home.”

“I’m so sorry,Master,” Misha says with heavy sarcasm. He holds up his bound hands and adds, “Please don’t whip me, Sir.”

I bristle, but I can’t help but wonder what the fuck I just got myself into. I really don’t have time for a slave, especially not a mouthy one, but then, the idea of putting that mouth to use in other ways is appealing.

Frank returns with a whip, and I look it over with approval. It’s one of the ones I’ve practiced with, thankfully, which invigorates me. I straighten, standing a little taller, and stare disdainfully down at my new slave.

“There’s a St. Andrew’s Cross over there,” I tell Misha, my voice steady despite the way my heart races with desire and rage alike. “I’m going to unchain you, and you will go there.” I point in that direction.

Misha looks at me from his position on the floor, but he doesn’t say anything. I look over to Angelo, who nods at me and moves to block the path out of the room. If Misha tries to bolt once I’ve unchained him, there won’t be anywhere for him to go.

I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that Misha just obediently gets up and walks over to the St. Andrew’s cross. He glances at me and holds up his bound hands. “Are you going to chain me to the cross? I can’t do it myself.”

“Do I need to chain you?” I counter. “You’re going to be a good boy and lean against it.” I cross over to unbind his hands. “Wrap your arms around the cross and be a good boy.”

Misha sneers at me. “Does that work for most of your victims? They just bend over and agree to be good because they’re terrified of you?”

“Because they aren’t stupid,” I say, “which is something I can’t say for you, apparently.” I gesture impatiently at the cross. “Wrap your arms around it, and I’ll chain you in place, then. Since you apparently are only half willing to behave.”

“Not stupid,” Misha answers. “Just not sure what the big deal is.” He turns his back to me and raises his arms up.

I note that he keeps flexing and unflexing his fists. He isn’t as unafraid as he’s pretending to be.

Good.

“Have you ever been whipped before?” I ask while I secure his wrists to the cross.

“Sure, loads of times,” Misha says in that same sarcastic tone. “When the fuck would I have gotten whipped?”

“You never know with people,” I say, but he’s right. I’d be more surprised if he did know how to handle a whipping. “Well, you’re a big, strong, brave man, so I’ll start out with fifteen. You’ll count each one, and if you miss one, I’ll start over.” I press up against his back, finding myself nipping on his earlobe before I even realize what I’m doing. “I hope you mess up many, many times.”

Behind me, Angelo laughs. “Damn, that’s cold, Raul. Poor guy’s a beginner and you’re gonna work him completely over?”

Misha pushes back as if to dislodge me. “Just get on with it, you sick fucks.”

“Yep,” I tell Angelo, ignoring Misha’s attempts to move me back. “He needs a solid lesson. Apparently they go too easy on recruits these days, or he wouldn’t have fucking tried to steal from us.” I make sure my voice is raised at that bit, catching the interest of some of the other buyers who’ve come to collect their own purchases.

I don’t know if this is the best course of action, but I’ve already committed to it, and the last thing I need to do is try to backtrack.

I back up, away from Misha and his clear canvas of a naked back, and lash out with an experimental crack of the whip. It serves two purposes: one, to let me get a feel for this particular whip, and two, to see how he reacts.

Misha grunts, but he doesn’t make any other sounds beyond that.

He also didn’t count.

That’s fine with me. I’ll keep going until my wrist is sore, beyond that even, if it teaches him a lesson and subdues him. “You think I should make him bleed?” I ask Angelo, conversationally as I give the first real lash of the cat.

Angelo grins at me. “I’m always in favor of blood. Did I tell you about the time I?—”

He repeats an anecdote I’ve heard before, and I tune him out to focus on Misha’s marvelous back in front of me. The first three lashes leave thick red welts on his back that are sure to swell and bruise.

On the next lash, I notice something strange.

Misha’s breathing is steady, and his muscles are no longer tense. When I swing the cat, he even sways with the lash.

He lied to me. This isn’t something new for him at all.

Again, he isn’t counting. We’re already up to four — well, four and a half, as the first one didn’t really count anyway — and he hasn’t begun. I could remind him, but the fact that he lied to me incenses me, and I hope he never starts counting.

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